RICK'D  WHITTEMORE 
Rare  Books 

ASHLAND,    MASS. 


IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 


<2>ttotr« 


THE  NEW  DAY 

THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

LYRICS 

TWO  WORLDS 

THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

TH«  ABOVE  ALSO  IH  OHB  VOLUMB  IHTJTL1 

FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 
IN  PALESTINE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 
"IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 

ALSO  8ILICTIOSS  ENTITLBD 

FOR  THE  COUNTRY 
A  CHRISTMAS  WREATH 


IN   THE   HEIGHTS" 

BY 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


NEW  YORK 
THE   CENTURY  CO. 

1905 


w 


Copyright,  1903,  1905,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co. 
Copyright,  1903,  1904,  1905,  by  HODOHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1904,  by  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1905,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Copyright,  1905,  by  P.  F.  COLLIER  AND  SON 

Copyright,  1905,  by  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  October,  1905 


THE    DE  VINNE    PRESS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"IN  THE  HEIGHTS"  (John  R.  Procter)       ....  3 

HOME  ACRES 7 

A  CALL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 9 

SPRING  SURPRISE 12 

AUTUMN  TREES 13 

"THE  LIGHT  LIES  ON  THE  FARTHER  HILLS"  ...  14 

"AH,  NEAR,  DEAR  FRIEND" 16 

Music  IN  DARKNESS  (Adele  aus  der  Ohe)      ...  18 

THE  ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN 21 

MOTHER  AND  CHILD 22 

ALICE  FREEMAN  PALMER 23 

"MOTHER  OF  HEROES"  (Sarah  Blake  Shaw)    ...  24 
THE  GREAT  CITIZEN  (Abram  Stevens  Hewitt)     .        .        .25 

ON  READING  OF  A  POET'S  DEATH  (Carlyle  McKinley)     .  27 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER 28 

"A  WONDROUS  SONG" 29 

A  NEW  POET 30 

v 


JVJ227I38 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SINGER  OF  JOY 33 

BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS 34 

LOST 36 

"WHAT  MAN  HATH  DONE" 37 

"HE  PONDERED  WELL" 39 

"  THOU  THINKEST  THOU  HAST  LIVED  "        ....  40 

THE  GOOD  MAN 42 

"So  FIERCE  THE  BUFFETS" 43 

Two  HEROES 44 

THE  WORLD'S  END 46 

SHELLEY'S  "OZYMANDIAS" 47 

LA  SALLE  (Explorer  of  the  Mississippi)       .        .        .        .48 

INAUGURATION  DAY 49 

THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT  (At  Washington,  D.  C.)        .  52 

BUILDERS  OF  THE  STATE 53 

IMPROMPTUS: 

To  WILLIAM  WATSON  (On  his  Coronation  Ode)    .        .  56 

"LIFE  is  THE  HAMMER"  (Sidney  Lanier)        .        .  56 

"THE  CRITIC  SCANNED  THE  POET'S  BOOK"   ...  57 

"HER  DELICATE  FORM" 57 

FRANCESCA  MIA 58 

AGE,  AND  THE  SCORNER 58 

To  JACOB  A.  Rns  (On  his  Silver  Wedding) ...  59 

Music  AND  FRIENDSHIP 60 


CONTENTS  Vii 

PAGE 

FRIENDSHIP  (To ) 60 

To  E.  C.  S.  (On  his  Seventieth  Birthday)          .        .         61 

"TELL  ME   GOOD-BY" 61 

FAREWELL  TO  CHARLESTON 62 

"THE  PINES" 63 

"NOT  WREATHS  ALONE" 64 

FOR  THE  CITY  CLUB 65 

To  CHARLES  H.  RUSSELL  (Whose  Father  was  One  of 

Lincoln's  Helpers) 65 

"GIVE  THY  DAY  TO  DUTY" 66 

Two  OPTIMISTS    (A   Letter  to  Joseph   Jefferson,  Ac 
knowledging   a   Copy  of   Helen    Keller's   Essay  on 

"Optimism") 66 

THE  PASSING  OF  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 69 

"SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE  THE  LIVING?".        ...        72 
HYMN  (Written  for  the  Service  in  Memory  of  Dr.  J.  L.  M. 
Curry,  held  by  the  Southern  Education  Conference, 
Richmond,  Virginia,  April  26,  1903)         .  .     77 

JOHN  WESLEY  (Written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Two- 
Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Birth  of  John  Wesley, 
at  Wesleyan  University,  Middletown,  Connecticut, 

June,  1903) 79 

A  TEMPLE  OF  ART  (Written  for  the  Opening  of  the  Albright 

Art  Gallery,  Buffalo,  May  31,  1905) .         .        .        .86 
THE   WHITE   TSAR'S  PEOPLE  (Reprinted,   with  additional 

stanzas) 91 


"IN  THE  HEIGHTS 


"IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 


ONE  who  this  valley  passionately  loved 
No  more  these  slopes  shall  climb,  nor  hear 

these  streams 
That  like  the  murmured  melody  of  dreams 

His  happy  spirit  moved. 


II 

He  knew  the  sudden  and  mysterious  thrill 
That  takes  the  heart  of  man  on  mountain 

heights, 

These  autumn  days  that  flame  from  hill  to  hill, 
These  deep  and  starry  nights. 
3 


4  -IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 


III 

O  vanished  spirit!  tell  us,  if  so  may  be, 

Are  our  wild  longings,  stirred  by  scenes  like 
this,— 

Our  deep-breathed,  shadowless  felicity,— 
A  mocking,  empty  bliss? 


IV 

No  answering  word,  save  from  the  inmost  soul 
That  cries:  all  things  are  real— beauty,  youth; 

All  the  heart  feels;  of  sorrow  and  joy  the  whole; 
That  which  but  seems  is  truth. 


This  mortal  frame,  that  harbors  the  immortal, 
Mechanic  though  it  be,  in  our  life's  fires 

Turns  spiritual;  it  becomes  the  portal 
Wherethrough  the  soul  aspires. 


"IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 


VI 

The  soul's  existence  in  its  human  sheath 
Is  life  no  more  than  is  the  spirit's  life 

In  this  wide  nature  whose  keen  air  we  breathe; 
Whose  strife  arms  us  to  strife. 


VII 

And  they  are  wise  who  seek  not  to  destroy 
The  unreasoned  happiness  of  the  outpoured 

year. 
To  him,— the  lost,— this  vale  brought  no  false 

joy, 
And  therefore  is  most  dear. 


VIII 

Wherever  in  the  majesty  of  space, 
Near  or  afar,  but  not  from  God  afar, 

Where'er  his  spirit  soars,  whatever  grace 
Is  his,  whatever  star— 


"IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 


IX 

The  aspirations  and  imaginings 

That  in  these  glorious  paths  his  soul  sub 
limed, 
They  are  a  part  of  him;  they  are  the  wings 

Whereby  he  strove  and  climbed. 


Nature  to  man  not  alien  doth  endure; 

Her  spirit  in  his  spirit  is  transfused; 
On  this  high  mystery  dream  the  humble-pure, 

The  mightiest  poets  mused. 


XI 

The  white  clouds  billow  down  the  blowing  sky, 
Then,  O  my  heart,  be  lifted  up,  rejoice! 
The  trumpet  of  the  winds,  to  that  wild  voice 

Let  all  my  soul  reply! 


HOME  ACRES 


A  SENSE  of  pureness  in  the  air, 

Of  wholesome  life  in  growing  things  ; 
Waving  of  blossom,  blade,  and  wings; 

Perfume  and  beauty  everywhere; 

Sky,  trees,  the  grass,  the  very  loam— 

I  love  them  all;  this  is  our  home. 

II 

God !  make  me  worthy  of  thy  land 
Which  mine  I  call  a  little  while; 
This  meadow  where  the  sunset's  smile 
Falls  like  a  blessing  from  thy  hand, 
And  where  the  river  singing  runs 
'Neath  wintry  skies  and  summer  suns! 
7 


HOME  ACRES 
III 

Million  on  million  years  have  sped 
To  frame  green  fields  and  bowering  hills; 
The  mortal  for  a  moment  tills 

His  span  of  earth,  then  is  he  dead: 

This  knows  he  well,  yet  doth  he  hold 

His  paradise  like  miser's  gold. 

IV 

I  would  be  nobler  than  to  clutch 
My  little  world  with  gloating  grasp; 
Now,  while  I  live,  my  hands  unclasp, 

Or  let  me  hold  it  not  so  much 

For  my  own  joy  as  for  the  good 

Of  all  the  gentle  brotherhood. 


And  as  the  seasons  move  in  mirth 
Of  bloom  and  bird,  of  snow  and  leaf, 
May  my  calm  spirit  rise  from  grief, 

In  solace  of  the  lovely  earth; 

And  though  the  land  be  dark  or  lit, 

Oh,  let  me  gather  songs  from  it. 


A  CALL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 


I  CALLED  you  once  to  the  sea, 
Come  now  to  the  mountains; 

Climb  the  earth's  ramparts  with  me, 
Drink  her  deep  fountains! 

II 

On  the  food  that  you  love  make  merry; 

Forget  grind  and  grief 
In  the  red  and  the  tang  of  the  berry, 

The  bronze  of  the  leaf. 

Ill 

Chestnuts  are  ripe  on  the  bough, 
And  the  burrs  all  are  bursting; 

For  a  tramp  with  you,  John,  I  vow! 
I  am  hungering  and  thirsting. 
9 


10  A  CALL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 


IV 

Come,  John,  or  you  '11  be  to  blame; 

The  birds  wait  your  biding. 
One  of  them,  hearing  your  name, 

Flashed  forth  from  its  hiding;— 


See,  it  is  searching  for  you— 
Its  pretty  head  cocking; 

Pecking,  and  looking  askew, 
On  the  bare  bough  rocking. 


VI 


And  yonder  a  stray  wing  flitters; 

A  great  hawk  soars; 
The  lakelet  gleams  and  glitters; 

The  high  wind  roars, 


A  CALL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  11 


VII 

Nearer,  from  field  and  thicket, 

Come  musical  calls; 
The  tinkling,  clear  note  of  the  cricket, 

Chime  of  ripples  and  falls. 


VIII 

From  the  meadow  far  up  to  the  height 

The  leaves  all  are  turning; 
By  the  time  you  have  come  to  the  sight 

The  world  will  be  blazing  and  burning. 


IX 

John  of  Birds,  tarry  not  till 
The  first  wild  snow-flurry; 

Voices  of  forest  and  hill 
Cry  hurry,  and  hurry! 


SPRING  SURPRISE 

Lo,  now  it  comes  once  more;  lo,  my  heart  leaps 
again, 

Comes  swift  the  dear  surprise,  not  at  the 
spring,  alone, 

But,  as  a  soul  that  knew,  many  a  year  agone, 

All  the  full  bloom  of  love,  since  the  gray 

ashes,— 

Feels  all  the  glad  surprise  when  the  o'er- 
wearied  heart 

Still  knows  the  joy  of  life,  as  in  the  olden  days; 

That  love  can  thrill  again;— so  the  spring  calls 
once  more 

With  the  old  tenderness;  till  my  heart  trem 
bles. 


AUTUMN  TREES 


BUT  yesterday  a  world  of  haze, 
To-day,  a  glory  of  color  and  light! 

Like  golden  voices  shouting  praise 
The  bright  trees  flame  along  the  height. 

II 

Who  would  have  thought,  the  summer 
through, 

Each  separate  tree  of  all  the  choir, 
Lifting  its  green  against  the  blue, 

Held  at  its  heart  such  flame  and  fire? 


"THE  LIGHT  LIES  ON  THE 
FARTHER  HILLS" 


THE  clouds  upon  the  mountains  rest; 
A  gloom  is  on  the  autumn  day; 

But  down  the  valley,  in  the  west, 
The  hidden  sunlight  breaks  its  way,- 
A  light  lies  on  the  farther  hills. 


II 

Forget  thy  sorrow,  heart  of  mine! 

Though  shadows  fall  and  fades  the  leaf, 
Somewhere  is  joy,  though  't  is  not  thine; 

The  power  that  sent  can  heal  thy  grief; 

And  light  lies  on  the  farther  hills. 
14 


THE  LIGHT  LIES  ON  THE  FARTHER  HILLS'*     15 


III 

Thou  wouldst  not  with  the  world  be  one 
If  ne'er  thou  knewest  hurt  and  wrong; 

Take  comfort,  though  the  darkened  sun 
Never  again  bring  gleam  or  song,— 
The  light  lies  on  the  farther  hills. 


AH,  NEAR,  DEAR  FRIEND" 


AH,  near,  dear  friend  of  many  and  many 

years! 
I  have  known  thy  lovelinesses,— known  thy 

tears, 

Thy  smiles,  like  sunlight  crossing  shade, 
Thy  spirit  unafraid. 


All  these  have  been  like  music  to  my  soul; 
These,  having  fashioned  me,  should  I  extol, 
It  were,  in  sooth,  myself  to  praise— 
O  Light  of  all  my  days! 
16 


"  AH,  NEAR,  DEAR  FRIEND  "  17 


III 

Thy  smiles,  thy  tears,  thy  exquisite  sad 

words,— 

Mystic  as,  in  the  moonlight,  songs  of  birds,— 
But,  oh,  more  wonderful  than  these, 
Thy  lonely  silences. 


MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS 


AT  the  dim  end  of  day 
I  heard  the  great  musician  play: 
Saw  her  white  hands  now  slow,  now  swiftly  pass; 
Where  gleamed  the  polished  wood,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  shadow  hands  repeating  every  motion. 
Then  did  I  voyage  forth  on  music's  ocean, 
Visiting  many  a  sad  or  joyful  shore, 
Where  storming  breakers  roar, 
Or  singing  birds  made  music  so  intense,— 
So  intimate  of  happiness  or  sorrow,— 
I  scarce  could  courage  borrow 
To  hear  those  strains :  well-nigh  I  hurried  thence 
To  escape  the  intolerable  weight 
That  on  my  spirit  fell  when  sobbed  the  music: 
late,  too  late,  too  late, 
18 


MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS  19 

While  slow  withdrew  the  light 

And,  on  the  lyric  tide,  came  in  the  night. 


II 

So  grew  the  dark,  enshrouding  all  the  room 

In  a  melodious  gloom, 

Her  face  growing  viewless;  line  by  line 

That  swaying  form  did  momently  decline 

And  was  in  darkness  lost. 

Then  white  hands  ghostly  turned,  though  still 

they  tost 
Prom  tone  to  tone;  pauseless  and  sure  as  if  in 

perfect  light; 

With  blind,  instinctive,  most  miraculous  sight, 
On,  on  they  sounded  in  that  world  of  night. 

Ill 

Ah,  dearest  one;  was  this  thy  thought,  as  mine, 
As  still  the  music  stayed? 
"  So  shall  the  loved  ones  fade, — 
Feature  by  feature,  line  on  lovely  line; 
For  all  our  love,  alas, 
From  twilight  into  darkness  shall  they  pass! 


20  MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS 

We  in  that  dark  shall  see  them  never  more, 
But  from  our  spirits  they  shall  not  be  ban 
ished,— 

For  on  and  on  shall  the  sweet  music  pour 
That  was  the  soul  of  them,  the  loved,  the  van 
ished; 

And  we,  who  listen,  shall  not  lose  them  quite 
In  that  mysterious  night." 


THE  ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN 

THIS  night  the  enchanting  musicians  rendered 
a  trio  of  Beethoven,— 

Light  and  lovely,  or  solemn,  as  in  a  Tuscan 
tower 

The  walls  with  gracious  tapestries  gleam,  and 
the  deep-cut  windows 

Give  on  landscapes  gigantic,  framing  the  four 
square  world,— 

When  sudden  the  music  turned  to  anger,  as 
nature's  murmur 

Sometimes  to  anger  turns,  speaking,  in  voice 
infuriate, 

Cruel,  quick,  implacable;  inhuman,  savage,  re 
sistless,— 

And  I  thought  of  that  sensitive  spirit  flinging 
back  in  scorn  tempestuous 

And  in  art  supreme,  immortal,  the  infamous 
arrows  of  fortune. 


21 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

MOTHER  and  Child!    There  is  no  holier  sight 
In  all  the  realms  of  morning  and  of  night; 
And  all  the  meaning  of  that  word,  DIVINE, 
Shines  in  the  tender  glory  of  this  sign. 
The  world  learns  Worship  here;  it  kneels  in 

awe. 

Seeing  a  mystery,  knowing  a  mighty  law. 
Sin  cannot  live  in  presence  of  this  grace, 
No  least  unworthiness  perplex  the  place. 
Here  Good  doth  dwell,  but  never  baneful 

Doubt, 

For  Love  and  Loveliness  would  cast  it  out. 
Were  prophet  voices  still,  the  heavens  brass, 
Here  would  a  new  Evangel  come  to  pass; 
Out  from  the  dark  a  rose-leaf  hand  would  leap, 
Close  to  the  Eternal  Throne  the  ancient  world 

to  keep. 


22 


ALICE  FREEMAN  PALMER 

WHEN  fell,  to-day,  the  word  that  she  had  gone, 
Not  this  my  thought:  Here  a  bright  journey 

ends, 

Here  rests  a  soul  unresting;  here,  at  last, 
Here  ends  that  earnest  strength,  that  gener 
ous  life— 

For  all  her  life  was  giving.     Rather  this 
I  said  (after  the  first  swift,  sorrowing  pang): 
Hence,  on  a  new  quest,  starts  an  eager  spirit— 
No  dread,  no  doubt,  unhesitating  forth 
With  asking  eyes;  pure  as  the  bodiless  souls 
Whom  poets  vision  near  the  central  throne 
Angelically  ministrant  to  man; 
So  fares  she  forth  with  smiling,  Godward  face; 
Nor  should  we  grieve,  but  give  eternal  thanks— 
Save  that  we  mortal  are,  and  needs  must 
mourn. 


23 


" MOTHER  OF  HEROES" 

SARAH  BLAKE  SHAW 

MOTHER  of  heroes,  she,— of  them  who  gave 
Their  lives  to  lift  the  lowly,  free  the  slave. 
Her,  through  long  years,  two  master  passions 

bound: 

Love  of  our  free  land;  and  of  all  sweet  sound. 
'T  was  praising  her  to  praise  this  land  of  grace; 
And  when  I  think  on  music— lo,  her  face! 


24 


THE  GREAT  CITIZEN 

ABRAM  STEVENS  HEWITT 


MOURN  for  his  death,  but  for  his  life  rejoice, 
Who  was  the  city's  heart,  the  city's  voice. 


II 

Dauntless  in  youth,  impetuous  in  age, 
Weighty  in  speech,  in  civic  counsel  sage; 


III 

Talents  and  wealth  to  him  were  but  a  trust 
To  lift  his  hapless  brother  from  the  dust,— 
25 


26  THE  GREAT  CITIZEN 


IV 

This  his  chief  aim:  to  wake,  in  every  man, 
The  soul  to  do  what  only  courage  can. 


He  saw  the  evil,  as  the  wise  must  see, 

But  firm  his  faith  in  what  the  world  shall  be. 


VI 

Following  the  truth,  he  led  his  fellow-men,— 
Through  years  and  virtues  the  great  citizen! 


VII 


By  being  great,  he  made  the  city  great,- 
Serving  the  city,  he  upheld  the  state. 

VIII 

So  shall  the  city  win  a  purer  fame 
Led  by  the  living  splendor  of  his  name. 


ON  READING  OF  A  POET'S 
DEATH 


I  READ  that,  in  his  sleep,  the  poet  died 

Ere  the  day  broke; 
In  a  new  dawn,  as  rose  earth's  crimson  tide, 

His  spirit  woke. 

II 

Yet  still  with  us  his  golden  spirit  stayed: 

On  the  same  page 
That  told  his  end,  his  living  verse  I  read,— 

His  lyric  rage. 

Ill 

Behold!  I  thought,  they  call  him  cold  in  death, 

But  hither  turn,— 
See  where  his  soul,  a  glorious,  flaming  breath, 

Doth  pulse  and  burn! 

27 


28  ON  BEADING  OF  A  POET'S  DEATH 

IV 

This  is  the  poet's  triumph,  his  high  doom! 

After  life's  stress, 
For  him  the  silent,  dark,  o'er-shadowing  tomb 

Is  shadowless. 


And  this  the  miracle,  the  mystery: 
In  that  he  gives 

His  soul  away,  magnificently  free— 
By  this  he  lives. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

IN  life's  hard  fight  this  poet  did  his  part; 
He  was  a  hero  of  the  mind  and  heart. 
Now  rests  his  body  'neath  his  own  loved  skies, 
And  from  his  tomb  Courage!  his  spirit  cries. 


"A  WONDROUS  SONG" 

A  WONDROUS  song, 

Rank  with  sea  smells  and  the  keen  lust  of  life; 

Echoing  with  battle  trumpets,  and  the  moan 

Of  dying  men  in  reeking  hospitals; 

Thrilling  all  through  with  human  pity  and  love 

And  crying  courage  in  the  face  of  doom;— 

With  all  its  love  of  life  still  praising  death 

Enchantingly,  as  death  was  never  praised; 

And  with  high  anger  and  a  god-like  scorn 

Passionately  proclaiming  life  in  death 

And  the  unquenched,  immortal  soul  of  man,— 

A  wondrous  song, 

Trembling  with  unshed  tears  and  life's  full  joy, 

Burst  the  tense  meshes  of  the  critic's  web 

And  sang  itself  into  eternal  day. 


29 


A  NEW  POET 


FRIENDS,  beware! 

Stop  babbling!     Hark,  a  sound  is  in  the  air! 
Above  the  pretty  songs  of  schools 
(Not  of  music  made,  but  rules), 
Above  the  panic  rush  for  gold 
And  emptinesses  manifold, 
And  selling  of  the  soul  for  phantom  fame, 
And  reek  of  praises  where  there  should  be 
blame; 

Over  the  dust  and  muck, 
The  buzz  and  roar  of  wheels, 
Another  music  steals,— 
A  right,  true  note  is  struck. 


A  NEW  POET  31 


II 

Friends,  beware! 

A  sound  of  singing  in  the  air! 

The  love-song  of  a  man  who  loves  his  fellow- 
men; 

Mother-love  and  country-love,  and  the  love  of 
sea  and  fen; 

Lovely  thoughts  and  mighty  thoughts  and 
thoughts  that  linger  long; 

There  has  come  to  the  old  world's  singing  the 
thrill  of  a  brave  new  song. 


Ill 


They  said  there  were  no  more  singers, 

But  listen!— a  master  voice! 

A  voice  of  the  true  joy-bringers! 

Now  will  ye  heed  and  rejoice 

Or  pass  on  the  other  side, 

And  wait  till  the  singer  has  died, 


32  A  NEW  POET 

Then  weep  o'er  his  voiceless  clay? 
Friends,  beware! 

A  keen,  new  sound  is  in  the  air,— 
Know  ye  a  poet's  coming  is  the  old  world's 
judgment  day! 


THE  SINGER  OF  JOY 

HE  sang  the  rose,  he  praised  its  fragrant 

breath; 

(Alas,  he  saw  the  gnawing  worm  beneath.) 
He  sang  of  summer  and  the  flowing  grass; 
(He  knew  that  all  the  beauty  quick  would  pass.) 
He  said  the  world  was  good  and  skies  were  fair; 
(He  saw  far,  gathering  clouds,  and  days  of  care.) 
Immortally  he  sang  pure  friendship's  flame; 
(Yet  had  he  seen  it  shrivel  to  a  name.) 
And,  ah,  he  praised  true  love,  with  golden 

speech; 

(What  though  it  was  a  star  he  could  not  reach.) 
His  songs  in  every  soul  the  hero  woke; 
(He  in  the  shadows  waited  the  last  stroke.) 
He  was  the  singer  of  the  joyous  art; 
(Down  to  the  grave  he  bore  a  broken  heart.) 


33 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS 

A  MELANCHOLY,  life  o'er-wearied  man 

Sat  in  his  lonely  room,  and,  with  slow  breath, 

Counted  his  losses:  thrice-wrecked  plan  on 

plan, 
Failure  of  friend,  and  hope,  and  heart,  and 

faith  - 

This  last  the  deadliest,  and  holding  all. 
Help  was  there  none  through  weeping,  for  the 

years 

Had  stolen  all  his  treasury  of  tears. 
Then  on  a  page  where  his  eyes  chanced  to  fall 
There  sprang  such  words  of  courage  that  they 

seemed 

Cries  on  a  battle-field,  or  as  one  dreamed 
Of  trumpets  sounding  charges;  on  he  read 
With  fixed  gaze,  and  sad,  down-drooping  head, 
34 


BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS  35 

And  curious,  half-remembering,  musing  mind. 
The  ringing  of  that  voice  had  something 

stirred 

In  his  deep  heart,  like  music  long  since  heard. 
"Brave  words,"  he  sighed;  and  looked  where 

they  were  signed; 
There,  reading  his  own  name,  tears  made  him 

blind. 


LOST 

AN  old,  blind  poet,  sitting  sad  and  lone, 
Thinking  his  scribe  was  near,  chimed  slowly 

forth 

Into  the  empty  and  unheeding  air 
A  song,  of  all  his  songs  the  loveliest. 
That  night  he  died,  and  the  sweet  song  was 

lost. 

A  million  roses  and  uncounted  worlds 
Unknown,  save  to  their  Maker,  strew  the  flood 
Of  endless  and  immeasurable  time. 


36 


"WHAT  MAN  HATH  DONE" 

THUS  did  he  speak,  thus  was  he  comforted: 
"I  yet  shall  learn  to  live  ere  I  am  dead; 
I  shall  be  firm  of  will,  know  false  from  true: 
Each  error  will  but  show  me  how  to  do, 
When  next  the  occasion  calls.    I  shall  pursue 
The  path  that  grim  experience  has  taught." 
This  was  his  solace,  this  his  saving  thought. 
Then  came  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  door. 
He  rose— and  did  what  he  had  done  before: 
He  looked  into  the  dark,  he  flinched,  he 

quailed; 
The  occasion  came,  and  once  again  he  failed. 


Thus  wrote  a  man  who  had  seen  much  of 

men: 
"  What  man  hath  done,  that  will  he  do  again.3 


37 


38  "WHAT  MAN  HATH  DONE" 

Yet  are  there  souls  who,  having  clinched 

with  fate, 

Have  learned  to  live,  ere  it  was  all  too  late. 
Be  it  thy  hope,  though  seven  times  a  fool, 
To  get  some  lessons  in  life's  fearful  school. 


"HE  PONDERED  WELL" 

HE  pondered  well,  looked  in  his  heart, 
And  bravely  did  his  part. 
Then  spake  the  Ironic  Powers 
That  rule  the  prostrate  hours: 
"Look  now  on  this  your  deed;— 
Despite  your  heroic  creed, 
Your  pondering  and  your  prayers, 
Behold  how  ill  the  pretty  project  fares! 
Not  hotly  were  you  driven; 
For  thought  and  thought  the  days  were 

seven; 

All  was  wisdom,  all  was  cool,— 
And  now  one  name  you  to  yourself  have 

given: 
'T  is  fool,  fool,  fool,  and  only  fool !  " 


Hast  thou  kept  honor,  and  sweet  courtesy 

kept, 
Then  is  no  loss  that  may  be  wailed  or 

wept, 

39 


"THOU  THINKEST  THOU 
HAST  LIVED" 

THOU  thinkest  them  hast  lived 

If  fortune  fair  hath  touched  thee  with  its 

wand, 

If  thou  hast  known,  but  once,  the  top  of  life 
In  giving  royally,  in  truly  loving, 
In  braving  some  great  deed  in  sight  of  men, 
Or  issuing  victorious  from  strife. 
Not  so;  nor  hast  of  life  the  flower  and  height 
In  suffering  that  others  may  go  free. 
For  thee  the  sequent  years  still  proudly  hold 
A  keener  sense  of  the  deep  life  that  is, 
When  thou,  brave  novice,  shalt  endure  the 

lore 

Of  fate's  immeasurable  ironies. 
40 


"THOU  THINKEST  THOU  HAST  LIVED"       41 

Thou  may'st  behold  the  scorn  of  thee  and 

thine 

Sit  on  the  laureled  brow  of  him  thy  hand 
Helped  to  that  heaven;  yes,  thou  may'st  see 
Success,  in  them  thou  gavest  strength  to  rise, 
Used  for  thine  own  disfigurement  and  loss; 
May'st  know  betrayal  and  forgetfulness, 
And  knowing  shalt  thy  spirit  hold  in  calm; 
Pitying  the  arrogant,  the  meanly  vain, 
Unbitterly,  and  with  no  cloying  hate, 
Disdain,  nor  envy;  comforted  and  blest 
With  the  high  thought  of  knowledge,  worthily 

gained, 

And  the  humility  which  makes  men  wise, 
And  the  uncensured  pride  of  purity. 


THE  GOOD  MAN 

WHAT  do  you  know  of  me,  my  gentlest  one! 
You  who  have  watched  my  life  from  day  to 

day 

Through  half  a  lifetime!    Who  have  seen,  in 
deed, 

My  comings  and  my  goings;  my  dull  years 
In  sunshine  and  in  shade;  in  getting  bread; 
Gathering  a  little  gold,  a  little  fame, 
A  thousand  nothings.     What,  I  say,  know  you 
Of  my  deep,  inward,  real,  wonderful  life? 
My  wild  emprises,  foolishnesses,  fears, 
Failures,  and  shames,  and  all  but  acted  crimes; 
My  half-mad  waking  dreams,  oh,  yes,  stark 

mad; 

My  spiritual  comedies,  my  glooms,— 
Unutterable,  intense,  and  without  hope; 
42 


"SO  FIERCE  THE  BUFFETS  "  43 

My  secret,  true,  and  unpraised  heroisms; 
My  tragedies,— played  on  the  bare  soul's  stage, 
With  no  eye  witnessing  but  mine,  alone,— 
Great  God!  not  thine,  I  pray,  not  thine,  not 
thine ! 


"SO  FIERCE  THE  BUFFETS" 

So  fierce  the  buffets  of  untimely  fate 
He  bowed  his  youthful  head  in  mortal  pain, 
And  cried:  "Alas,  my  happy  life  is  slain!" 
Then  came  true  sorrow,  and  he  knew,  too  late, 
His  early  woe  was  but  a  feather's  weight. 


TWO  HEROES 


Two  heroes  do  the  world's  insistent  work: 
One  rushes  in  the  battle's  blood  and  murk, 

And,  knowing  the  f oeman  flies, 

In  one  rich  moment  dies. 

II 

The  other,  on  a  path  he  long  has  feared, 
By  bugle  blast  and  drum-beat  all  uncheered, 
At  duty's  chill  behest 
Gives  life  to  want  and  waste. 

Ill 

For  him,  the  battle  hero,  high  we  pile 

The  sculptured  stone;  his  ringing  name,  the 

while, 

In  praises  and  in  songs 
Its  lyric  life  prolongs. 
44 


TWO    HEROES  45 

IV 

For  the  other,  we  fashion  a  heaven  of  late 
reward;  . 

His  life,  all  dark,  and  desolate,  and  hard, 
Down  to  oblivion  goes,— 
Unless  some  great  God  knows! 


THE  WORLD'S  END 

ONCE  wandering  far  in  Asia,  lo,  we  came 
Unto  a  valley  falling  toward  the  east; 
Naked  its  sides  as  if  a  spreading  flame 
Had  swept  all  bare;  devouring,  in  mad 

feast, 

Forest  and  herb,  all  beasts  and  singing  choirs. 
With  ardent  colors  were  the  vast  hills 

strewn, 
Glowing  like  unquenched  embers  of  great 

fires; 
Then  sank  the  red  sun,  rose  immense  the 

moon. 
So  builded  were  those  walls,  so  leaned  the 

earth,— 

With  slow,  unnatural,  and  awful  trend,— 
It  seemed,  at  last,  in  this  strange  land  of 

dearth, 
Even  just  beyond,  the  solid  world  had 

end,— 

And,  moving  on,  our  vision  might  take  flight 
Into  that  pit  whence  issue  day  and  night. 
46 


SHELLEY'S  ' '  OZYMANDIAS  " 

THIS  timeless  river— oldest  of  all  time— 
These  desolate  mountains,  deserts  stretching 

vast; 

These  pyramids  and  temples;  this  domain 
Of  tombs;  and  empty  shadows  of  the  dead, 
And  mockery  of  old  fame,  here  day  and  night 
I  wander— not  alone— nor  with  sad  heart: 
One  line  of  Shelley  singing  in  my  soul. 


47 


LA  SALLE 

EXPLORER  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

BATTLING  through  trackless  lands,  'gainst 

savage  foes; 

Striving,  enduring,  knowing  the  bitterness 
Of  foul  betrayal,  still  in  front  he  goes; 
Onward  through  swamp  and  forest  see  him 

press, 

Proud,  silent,  suffering,  misunderstood; 
The  weight  he  bore,  it  seemed  that  no  man 

could; 

Then  at  the  last,  when  the  infernal  stroke 
Fell,  't  was  as  if  the  silent  leader  spoke: 
"This  river  I  first  traced  to  the  far  sea— 
If  monument  I  need,  this  let  it  be; 
Then  shall  I  live  with  the  chief  sons  of  time. 
This  is  the  path  of  empire:  onward  to  empire 

climb!" 


48 


INAUGURATION  DAY 


ON  this  great  day  a  child  of  time  and  fate 
On  a  new  path  of  power  doth  stand  and  wait. 


II 


Though  heavy-burdened  shall  his  heart  re 
joice, 

Dowered  with  a  nation's  faith,  an  empire's 
choice. 

in 

Who  hath  no  strength,  but  that  the  people 

give, 
And  in  their  wills,  alone,  his  will  doth  live. 

4  49 


50  INAUGURATION  DAY 

IV 

On  this  one  day,  this,  this,  is  their  one  man,— 
The  well-beloved,  the  chief  American! 


Whose  people  are  his  brothers,  fathers,  sons: 
In  this  his  strength,  and  not  a  million  guns. 

VI 

Whose  power  is  mightier  than  the  mightiest 

crown, 
Because  that  soon  he  lays  that  power  down. 

VII 

Whose  wish,  linked  to  the  people's,  shall  ex 
ceed 
The  force  of  civic  wrong  and  banded  greed. 

VIII 

Whose  voice,  in  friendship  or  in  warning 

heard, 
Brings  to  the  nations  a  free  people's  word; 


INAUGURATION  DAY  51 

IX 

And,  where  the  oppressed  out  from  the  dark 
ness  grope, 
'T  is  as  the  voice  of  freedom  and  of  hope. 

x 

O  pray  that  he  may  rightly  rule  the  State, 
And  grow,  in  truly  serving,  truly  great. 


THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT 

AT  WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 

STRAIGHT  soars  to  heaven  the  white  magnifi 
cence,— 
Free  as  man's  thought,  high  as  one  lonely 

name;— 

True  image  of  his  soul,— serene,  immense,— 
Mightiest  of  monuments  and  mightiest 
fame. 


52 


BUILDERS  OF  THE  STATE 


WHO  builds  the  state?    Not  he  whose  power 
Rooted  in  wrong,  in  gold  intrenched, 

Makes  him  the  regent  of  the  hour; 
The  eternal  light  can  not  be  quenched: 

II 

This  shall  outlive  his  little  span; 

Shine  fierce  upon  each  tainted  scheme; 
Shall  show  where  shame  blots  all  the  plan; 

The  treachery  in  the  dazzling  dream. 

Ill 

He  builds  the  state  who  builds  on  truth,— 
Not  he  who,  crushing  toward  his  aim, 

Strikes  conscience  from  the  throne,  and  ruth, 
To  win  a  dark  unpiteous  fame. 
53 


54  BUILDERS  OF  THE  STATE 


IV 


Not  he,  though  master  among  men,— 
Empire  and  ages  all  his  thought,— 

Though  like  an  eagle  be  his  ken: 

Down  to  the  ground  shall  all  he  brought. 


For  this  I  hold,  and  shall  for  aye,— 
Till  Heaven  sends  death,— that  they  who 
sow 

Hate,  and  the  blood  of  brothers,  they 
Shall  harvest  hate  and  want  and  woe,— 


VI 

The  curse  of  Earth's  dread  agonies 
Whereto  they  added,  in  their  hour, 

And  all  the  unheeded  tears  and  cries 
They  caused  in  lust  of  lawless  power. 


BUILDERS  OF  THE  STATE  55 


VII 


He  builds  the  state  who  to  that  task 
Brings  strong,  clean  hands,  and  purpose 
pure; 

Who  wears  not  virtue  as  a  mask; 

He  builds  the  state  that  shall  endure,— 


VIII 

The  state  wherein  each  loyal  son 

Holds  as  a  birthright  from  true  sires 

Treasures  of  honor,  nobly  won, 
And  freedom's  never-dying  fires. 


IMPROMPTUS 
To  WILLIAM  WATSON 

ON  HIS  CORONATION  ODE 

(These  lines  were  first  published  on  the  day  the  King  was  to  have 
been  crowned.) 

IN  this  high  ode  with  its  great  shadow-kings, 
More  real  than  real  things; 

In  this  proud  pageant  of  imperial  verse 
That  nobly  doth  rehearse 

England's  true  glories,  for  the  world  to  read, 
The  King  is  crowned  indeed! 

"LIFE  is  THE  HAMMER" 

(SIDNEY  LANIER) 

I 

LIFE  is  the  hammer  that  strikes 
From  the  bell  of  the  poet's  heart 
Art. 

56 


IMPROMPTUS  57 


II 


And  whether  he  lives  or  dies 
The  music  in  widening  rings 
Sings. 


"THE  CRITIC  SCANNED  THE  POET'S  BOOK" 

THE  critic  scanned  the  poet's  book 
And  ranged  it  calmly  in  its  place;— 
A  soul  that  felt  its  music  shook 
As  if  a  bolt  struck  down  through  space; 
And  in  that  soul,  like  flower  from  seed, 
The  music  turned  to  lofty  deed 
That  sanctified  a  race. 


"HER  DELICATE  FORM" 

HER  delicate  form,  her  night  of  hair, 

Took  me,  unaware. 
They  called  her  poet,  and  the  word 

Strangely  I  heard; 
For  that  I  thought:  Can  she 
A  poem  write,  and  be? 


58  IMPROMPTUS 

FRANCESCA  MIA 

No  verses  I  can  bring  her, 
No  song  that  I  can  sing  her, 
Can  be  so  sweet,  by  half, 
As  the  music  of  her  laugh, 
As  the  murmur  of  her  voice, 
As  the  sound  of  her  violin. 
These  make  my  heart  rejoice, 
These  me  to  heaven  can  win. 
But  something  in  her  face,— 
Sad,  wild,  and  full  of  grace,— 
A  look  in  those  dark  eyes 
That  dream,  and  flash,  and  dance, 
And  with  soft  shadows  fill,— 
These  bring  one  long-loved  glance, 
Tender,  and  deep,  and  wise,— 
Then  doth  my  heart  stand  still. 

AGE,  AND  THE  SCORNER 

As  I  hobble,  old  and  halt, 
Daily— nightly — 

By  you,— hectoring  on  the  corner,— 
I  know  you  for  a  graybeard  scorner, 


IMPROMPTUS  59 

Though  you  raise  your  hat  politely:— 

I  know  you  hold  it  for  a  fault 

That  I  bend  with  burdening  years, 

Dull  of  eye,  and  dull  of  ears; 

That  this  poll 

Whitens  like  a  flax-wigged  doll. 

T  is  a  fault,  you  think;  but  wait! 

Something  marches,  men  call  Fate; 

If  you,  boy!  succeed  in  keeping 

Safe  from  sweep  of  Old  Time's  reaping 

You  ni  be  the  bent-back  one  that  hobbles 

Over  the  cobbles— 

Wondering  why,  all  young  at  heart, 

With  the  old  you  're  pushed  apart. 


To  JACOB  A.  Rus 

ON  HIS  SILVER  WEDDING 

WERE  true  hearts  bells,  all  breezes  would  be 

bringing, 

Straight  to  your  heart  to-day,  a  silver  ringing 
From  those  you  've  blest,  the  heavy  hearts 

and  sore; — 
Hark  the  sweet  sound  from  here  to  Elsinore! 


60  IMPROMPTUS 

Music  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

THRICE  is  sweet  music  sweet  when  every  word 
And  lovely  tone  by  kindred  hearts  are  heard; 
So  when  I  hear  true  music.  Heaven  send, 
To  share  that  heavenly  joy,  one  dear,  dear 
friend! 


FRIENDSHIP 
TO 

i 

FROM  the  happy  first  time 
That  we  met— and  wondered, 

I  from  thee  and  thou  from  me 
Ne'er  in  soul  were  sundered. 


II 


No  regret,  no  blaming; 

Absence  has  not  shaken: 
Far  apart,  still  close  in  heart; 

Undoubting,  unforsaken. 


IMPROMPTUS  61 

III 

As  the  circle  narrows 

We  draw  near  and  nearer; 

So,  old  friend !  as  comes  the  end 
Thou  art  dearer,  dearer. 

To  E.  C.  S. 

ON  HIS  SEVENTIETH   BIRTHDAY 

His  life  was  generous  as  his  life  was  long,— 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  friendship  and  with 
song. 

"TELL  ME  GOOD-BY" 


DARK  Southern  girl— the  dream-like  day  has 

past, 

The  harbor  light  burns  red  against  the  sky; 
In  the  high  blue,  star  follows  star  full  fast; 
The  ship  that  takes  me  northward  loometh 

nigh; 
"Tell  me  good-by!" 


62  IMPROMPTUS 

II 

Good-by  to  the  red  rose  that  is  your  mouth. 

The  tender  violets  that  are  your  sigh; 
The  sweetness  that  you  are,— that  is  my 
South,- 

Ah,  not  too  soon,  Enchantress,  do  I  fly!— 
"Tell  me  good-by." 

in 

"Tell  me  good-by,"  but  not  too  sweetly  tell 
Lest  all  too  hard  the  going,— lest  I  cry 

"Never,  no  never!"  though  the  parting  bell 

Ring  madly  in  the  night;— not  then  could  I 
Tell  you  good-by. 

FAREWELL  TO  CHARLESTON 

ENCHANTED  city,  0  farewell,  farewell! 

If  farewell  it  can  be 

When  here,  'twixt  the  dark  pines  and  sunrise  sea, 

Our  hearts  remain, 

While  fare  our  bodies  to  the  North  again! 

Here  stay  our  hearts  amid  these  mansions 

stately, 
These  oaks,  forever  green,  that  guard  sedately 


IMPROMPTUS  63 

The  living  and  the  dead— 

Thrilled  through  with  song  that  hath  inter 
preted 

The  beauty  and  the  gladness  of  the  day. 

Oh,  yes,  our  hearts  remain;  they  must  forever 
stay 

'Midst  happy  gardens,  unforgettable, 

And  where  St.  Michael's  chimes 

The  fragrant  hours  exquisitely  tell, 

Making  the  world  one  loveliness,  like  a  true 
poet's  rhymes. 


"THE  PINES" 

THESE  are  the  sounds  that  I  heard  at  the 

home  in  "The  Pines"— 
The  frightened  cry  of  the  yellowthroat  hid  in 

the  trees; 
The  chipmunk's  rustling  tread  on  the  autumn 

leaves 
That  fringe  with  brown  the  green  of  the  wave 

and  the  wood; 
The  purr  of  the  quick  canoe  where  it  curves 

the  wave 


64  IMPROMPTUS 

And  the  liquid  push  of  the  oar;— the  voice  of 

the  wind 
Now  far,  now  near,  as  it  sighs  through  the 

swaying  boughs,— 
Through  the  boughs  that  sway  with  a  slow 

and  wave-like  motion 
Like  growths  of  the  sea  that  swing  in  the 

moving  waters;— 
The  voice  of  the  wind  I  heard,  now  near,  now 

far;— 
Voice  of  the  grieving  world  that  murmurs 

and  calls 
And  wakes  in  the  spirit  of  man  an  answering 

cry. 

"NOT  WREATHS  ALONE" 

NOT  wreaths  alone,  for  him  who  wins  the 

fight 

'Twixt  public  Wrong  and  Right;— 
The  heavy  burden  of  the  people's  cares 

The  civic  conqueror  bears. 
So  to  the  chief,  on  this  victorious  night, 
Pledge  hands  and  hearts  and  heaven-climbing 
prayers. 


IMPROMPTUS  65 

FOR  THE  CITY  CLUB 

IN  Love  of  City  here  we  take  our  stand:— 
Love  of  the  City  is  no  narrow  love; 

Who  loves  it  not  he  cannot  love  his  land 
With  love  that  shall  protect,  exalt,  endure. 

Here  are  our  homes,  our  hearts;  great  God 
above! 

The  City  shall  be  noble,  shall  be  pure. 

To  C.  H.  RUSSELL 

WHOSE   FATHER  WAS  ONE  OF  LINCOLN'S  HELPERS 

I  GIVE  this  token  to  the  son  of  him 
That  was  a  type  of  those  brave,  prescient  souls 
Who  when  dire  trouble  fell  upon  the  land 
From  the  beginning  saw  the  fateful  end, 
Bending  strong  backs  to  the  tremendous 

strain. 
Higher  than  knighthood's  honor  lives  your 

line 

For  that  the  mighty  Lincoln  hurriedly  called 
To  your  true  sire,  in  a  perilous  hour, 
And  got  true  answer— succor  swift,  complete. 


66  IMPROMPTUS 

On  such  as  he  the  patient  President, 
The  tender  elder  brother  of  us  all, 
The  sad,  wise  leader  leaned,  and  not  in  vain. 
Therefore  the  nation  lives— therefore  shall  live, 
Inheriting  the  spirit  of  great  days. 


"GIVE  THY  DAY  TO  DUTY" 

GIVE  thy  day  to  Duty! 

To  that  high  thought  be  given 

Thine  every  hour. 

So  shall  the  bending  heaven,— 

As  from  the  root  the  flower,— 

Bring  to  thy  glad  soul  Beauty. 


Two  OPTIMISTS 

(A  LETTER  TO  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON,  ACKNOWLEDGING  A 
COPY  OF  HELEN  KELLER'S  ESSAY  ON  "OPTIMISM") 

To  send  fit  thanks,  I  would  I  had  the  art, 
For  this  small  book  that  holds  a  mighty  heart 
Enshrining,  as  it  does,  brave  Helen's  creed. 
In  thought  and  word;  in  many  a  lovely  deed; 


IMPROMPTUS  67 

In  facing  what  would  crush  a  lesser  soul, 
Making  of  barriers  helps  to  reach  the  goal; 
In  sympathy  with  all;  in  human  kindness 
To  the  blind  of  heart  (dear  girl!  not  this  her 

blindness!), 

As  well  as  to  her  brethren  of  the  dark 
And  silent  world,  who  through  her  see  and 

hark; 

In  bringing  out  of  darkness  a  great  light, 
Which  burns  and  beacons  high  in  all  men's 

sight, 
That  exquisite  spirit  is  true  optimist! 

Yet  there  are  other  names  in  the  bright  list: 
If  faith  in  man  and  woman  that  still  lasts, 
Though  chilled  by  seventy  winters'  bitter 

blasts; 

If  seeing,  as  you  see,  the  good  in  evil, 
And  even  something  Christian  in  the  devil; 
If  power  to  take  misfortune  as  a  friend 
And  to  be  cheerful  to  the  darkening  end; 
Not  to  be  spoiled  by  praise,  nor  deeply  stung 
By  the  detractor's  sharp  and  envious  tongue; 
If  living  in  fairy-land  as  really  now 
As  when  heaven's  dew  was  fresh  on  child 
hood's  brow; 


68  IMPROMPTUS 

If  seeing,  in  fine,  this  world  as  through  a  prism 
Of  lovely  colors  be  true  optimism, 
Then  Jefferson  is  true  optimist  no  less, 
And  Heaven  sent  both  this  troubled  world  to 
bless. 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOSEPH 
JEFFERSON 

SOME  element  from  nature  seems  withdrawn, 
The  world  we  lived  in  being  of  his  spirit 

wrought,— 

His  brightness,  sweetness,  tender  gaiety, 
His  childlike,  wistful,  and  half-humorous  faith 
That  turned  this  harsh  earth  into  fairy-land. 
He  made  our  world,  and  now  our  world  is 

changed. 

The  sunniest  nature  his  that  ever  breathed; 
Most  lovable  of  all  the  sons  of  men; 
Who  built  his  joy  on  making  others  happy; 
Like  Jesus,  lover  of  the  hills  and  shores, 
And  like  him  to  the  beasts  and  flowers  kin, 
And  with  a  brother's  love  for  all  mankind, 
But  chiefly  for  the  loving— though  the  lost. 
In  his  own  art,— ineffable,  serene, 
69 


70         THE  PASSING  OF  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 

And  mystical  (not  less  to  nature  true 
And  to  the  heart  of  man),— his  was  the  power 
To  shed  a  light  of  love  on  human  waifs 
And  folk  of  simple  soul.     Where'er  he  went. 
Sweet  childhood  followed  and  all  childlike 

hearts. 

His  very  presence  made  a  holiday — 
Affectionate  laughter  and  quick,  unsad  tears. 


Now,  he  being  gone,  the  sun  shines  not  so 

bright 
And  every  shadow  darkens. 

Kind  Heaven  forbid 

Our  lives  should  lack  forever  what  he  gave,— 
Prove  mirage-haunted,  every  good  unreal! 
Let  the  brave  cheer  of  life  we  had  through  him 
Return,  reflected  from  his  joyous  soul 
That  cannot  all  be  lost,  where'er  it  hides, — 
Hides,  but  is  quenched  not,— haply  smiling  still 
Near  where  his  well-loved  Shakspere  smiling 

sits, 

Whose  birthday  for  his  own  new  birth  he  took 
Into  the  unseen  world,  to  him  not  far 
But  radiant  with  the  same  mysterious  light 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON          71 

That  filled  his  noontime  with  the  twilight 

dream. 

And  it  was  Easter,  too,— the  golden  day 
Of  resurrection,  and  man's  dauntless  hope. 

Into  the  unseen  he  passed,  willing  and  glad, 
And  humbly  proud  of  a  great  nation's  love; 
In  honored  age,  with  heart  untouched  by  years 
Save  to  grow  sweeter,  and  more  dear,  more 

dear,— 

Into  that  world  whereon,  so  oft,  he  mused; 
Where  he  forgets  not  this,  nor  shall  we  him,— 
That  magic  smile,  that  most  pathetic  voice, 
That  starry  glance,  that  rare  and  faithful  soul. 


From  dream  to  dream  he  passed  on  Shak- 

spere's  day— 

So  dedicate  his  mind  to  pleasant  thought, 
So  deep  his  fealty  to  that  great  shade; 
He  being,  like  him  of  Avon,  a  fairy  child, 
High-born  of  miracle  and  mystery, 
Of  wonder,  and  of  wisdom,  and  of  mirth. 


SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE 
THE  LIVING?" 


UNGENEROUS! 

Shall  we  not  praise  the  living  as  the  dead? 
And  I,  who  lately  sang  a  beautiful  spirit  fled, 
Shall  I  not  praise  a  living  spirit  we  know, 
Dear  heart!  we  know  full  well,— 
And  long  have  known,  in  utmost  joy  and  woe; 
In  our  own  sorrows,  and  delights; 
Her  days  of  brightness  and  lone-weeping 

nights! 
If  she  should  die,— alas  the  day!  how  swift 

this  verse  would  tell 

Our  anguish,  our  large  loss,— irreparable, — 
In  a  wild  passion  of  praise 
For  her  dear  virtues,  her  sweet  friendship's 

ways, 

72 


"  SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE  THE  LIVING?  "     73 

That  many  know;  but  only  a  sacred  few 
Know,  as  to  the  evening  hour  is  known  the 

dew, 
As  the  still  dawn  knows  the  great,  melting 

stars, 

As  night  is  intimate  to  those  who  love, 
As  sorrow's  voice  is  known  to  the  mourning 

dove, 
As  memoried  twilight  holds  the  sunset's 

crimson  bars. 


II 

Shall  we  not  praise  the  loveliness 

God  gave  her,  and  the  true  heart  that  cannot 
help  but  bless? 

For  she  is  not  of  those 

Who  virtues  wear  like  graceful  draperies, — 

But  breathes  them  as  her  life.    Where'er  she 
goes 

Go  pleasure  and  pure  thoughts,— and  base 
ness  dies. 

A  holy  ministry  her  life  is— even  without 
intent; 

For,  though  she  worships  duty, 


74     "  SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE  THE  LIVING?  " 

Such  elements  in  her  are  exquisitely  blent 
She  cannot  but  be  kind; 
A  spiritual  radiance  in  her  beauty 
Makes  itself  inly  felt,  even  by  the  blind. 
Ah,  thou  and  I,— dear  soul!  we  know 
How  the  rich  courtesy  that  touched  full  many 

a  heart 

Is  no  mere  learnt  and  gracious  art; 
For  when,  to  those  she  loved,  keen  trouble 

came, 

How  leaped  her  spirit,  like  a  flame; 
How  quick,  sure,  self -forgetting,  beyond 

thought, 
The  angelic  succor  that  brave  spirit  brought! 


Ill 

How  may  I  fitly  name  them  all— 
The  graces,  gentlenesses,  benedicities, 
That  in  a  white  processional 
Move  before  these  musing  eyes; 
Nor  would  I  shame 

That  proud  humility  which  is  the  crown  and 
chief 


"SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE  THE  LIVING?"    75 

Of  all  the  virtues  that  make  up  her  golden 
sheaf; 

Though  should  I  name  each  separate  good 
ness,  clearly,  that  is  her  very  own, 

To  her  calm  eyes,  alone, 

The  authentic  picture  would  be  never 
known,— 

The  portrait  of  another  it  would  seem; 

And  should  one  say,  "This,  this  indeed  is  you!" 
"  No,"  she  would  cry, "  't  is  but  a  poet's  dream, 

And,  save  as  a  dream,  it  cannot  all  be  true!" 


IV 


This  then  the  dream:  Large,  innocent  eyes, 
Lit  with  life's  romance  and  surprise, 
And  with  a  child's  strange  wisdom  wise. 

A  child  in  nature,  eager,  gay, 
And,  yet,  in  all  a  woman's  way 
Wifely  and  motherly  her  day. 

Curious,  but  constant;  slow  to  wrath, 
Yet  nobly  scornful;  pride  she  hath 
That  sheds  a  splendor  on  her  path. 

She  breathes  a  heaven-born  sympathy; 


76     "SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE  THE  LIVING?" 

For  her  there  is  no  low  nor  high; 
Goodness  is  honor  in  her  eye: 

So,  in  the  throng,  each  separate  one 
Deems  her  glad  welcome  his  alone, 
As  if  some  special  grace  were  shown. 

The  great  world,  seeing  her  afar, 
Claims  her,  and  names  her  for  a  star; 
But,  among  nearer  watchers,  are 

Some  who  a  sacred  tale  could  tell 
How  those  bright  beams,  ineffable, 
On  one  great  hero- spirit  fell. 


Shall  we  not  praise  the  living? 

Too  soon  the  living  pass 

Like  images  on  the  unremembering  glass, 

Scarce  even  a  breath's  length!  shall  we  not 

thanksgiving 

Upraise,  or  e'er  the  everlasting  sleep 
Hath  dulled  the  ear?— that  slumber  deep 
Whereof  we  know  so  little,  however  we  may 

hope,— 
Mortals  who  see  a  closing  door,  and  never  see 

it  ope. 


HYMN 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  SERVICE  IN  MEMORY  OF  DR.  J.  L.  M. 
CURRY,  HELD    BY  THE    SOUTHERN  EDUCATION  CON 
FERENCE,  RICHMOND,  VIRGINIA.  APRIL  26,  1903 


GOD  of  the  strong,  God  of  the  weak, 
Lord  of  all  lands,  and  our  own  land; 

Light  of  all  souls,  from  thee  we  seek 
Light  from  thy  light,  strength  from 
thy  hand. 

II 

In  suffering  thou  hast  made  us  one, 
In  mighty  burdens  one  are  we; 

Teach  us  that  lowliest  duty  done 
Is  highest  service  unto  thee. 

77 


78  HYMN 

III 

Teach  us,  Great  Teacher  of  mankind, 
The  sacrifice  that  brings  thy  balm; 

The  love,  the  work  that  bless  and  bind; 
Teach  us  thy  majesty,  thy  calm. 

IV 

Teach  thou,  and  we  shall  know,  indeed, 
The  truth  divine  that  maketh  free; 

And  knowing,  we  may  sow  the  seed 
That  blossoms  through  eternity;— 


May  sow  in  every  living  heart 
That  to  the  waiting  day  doth  ope. 

Not  ours,  0  God!  the  craven  part, 
To  shut  one  human  soul  from  hope. 

VI 

Now,  in  the  memory  of  thy  Saint, 
To  whom  thy  little  ones  were  dear, 

Help  us  to  toil  and  not  to  faint, 
Till  earth  grows  dark  and  heaven 
comes  near. 


JOHN  WESLEY 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  TWO-HUN 
DREDTH    ANNIVERSARY     OF     THE     BIRTH     OF 
JOHN  WESLEY,  AT  WESLEYAN  UNIVERSITY. 
MIDDLETOWN,  CONNECTICUT.  JUNE,  1903 


IN  those  clear,  piercing,  piteous  eyes  behold 
The  very  soul  that  over  England  flamed! 
Deep,  pure,  intense;  consuming  shame  and  ill; 
Convicting  men  of  sin;  making  faith  live; 
And,— this  the  mightiest  miracle  of  all,— 
Creating  God  again  in  human  hearts. 

What  courage  of  the  flesh  and  of  the  spirit! 
How  grim  of  wit,  when  wit  alone  might  serve! 
What  wisdom  his  to  know  the  boundless 

might 

Of  banded  effort  in  a  world  like  ours! 
79 


80  JOHN  WESLEY 

How  meek,  how  self-forgetful,  courteous, 

calm!— 

A  silent  figure  when  men  idly  raged 
In  murderous  anger;  calm,  too,  in  the  storm,— 
Storm  of  the  spirit,  strangely  imminent, 
When  spiritual  lightnings  struck  men  down 
And  brought,  by  violence,  the  sense  of  sin, 
And  violently  oped  the  gates  of  peace. 

0  hear  that  voice,  which  rang  from  dawn 

to  night, 

In  church  and  abbey  whose  most  ancient  walls 
Not  for  a  thousand  years  such  accents  knew! 
On  windy  hilltops;  by  the  roaring  sea; 
'Mid  tombs,  in  market-places,  prisons,  fields; 
'Mid  clamor,  vile  attack,— or  deep-awed  hush, 
Wherein  celestial  visitants  drew  near 
And  secret  ministered  to  troubled  souls! 

Hear  ye,  O  hear!  that  ceaseless-pleading 

voice, 
Which  storm,  nor  suffering,  nor  age  could 

still - 
Chief  prophet-voice  through  nigh  a  century's 

span! 


JOHN  WESLEY  81 

Now  silvery  as  Zion's  dove  that  mourns, 
Now  quelling  as  the  Archangel's  judgment- 
trump, 

And  ever  with  a  sound  like  that  of  old 
Which,  in  the  desert,  shook  the  wandering 

tribes, 

Or,  round  about  storied  Jerusalem, 
Or  by  Gennesaret,  or  Jordan,  spake 
The  words  of  life. 

Let  not  that  image  fade 
Ever,  0  God!  from  out  the  minds  of  men, 
Of  him  thy  messenger  and  stainless  priest, 
In  a  brute,  sodden,  and  unfaithful  time, 
Early  and  late,  o'er  land  and  sea,  on-driven; 
In  youth,  in  eager  manhood,  age  extreme,— 
Driven  on  forever,  back  and  forth  the  world, 
By  that  divine,  omnipotent  desire— 
The  hunger  and  the  passion  for  men's  souls! 

Ah,  how  he  loved  Christ's  poor!    No  narrow 

thought 

Dishumaned  any  soul  from  his  emprise; 
But  his  the  prayer  sincere  that  Heaven  might 

send 

6 


82  JOHN  WESLEY 

Him  chiefly  to  the  humble;  he  would  be, 
Even  as  the  Galilean,  dedicate 
Unto  the  ministry  of  lowliness: 
That  boon  did  Heaven  mercifully  grant; 
And  gladly  was  he  heard;  and  rich  the  fruit; 
While  still  the  harvest  ripens  round  the  earth; 
And  many  own  the  name  once  given  in  scorn; 
And  all  revere  the  holy  life  he  led, 
Praise  what  he  did  for  England,  and  the 

world, 

And  call  that  greatness  which  was  once  re 
proach. 
Would  we  were  worthy  for  his  praise. 

Dear  God! 

Thy  servant  never  knew  one  selfish  hour! 
How  are  we  shamed,  who  look  upon  a  world 
Ages  afar  from  that  true  kingdom  preached 
Millenniums  ago  in  Palestine! 

Send  us,  again,  O  Spirit  of  all  Truth! 
High  messengers  of  dauntless  faith  and  power 
Like  him  whose  memory  this  day  we  praise, 
We  cherish  and  we  praise  with  burning  hearts. 
Let  kindle,  as  before,  from  his  bright  torch, 
Myriads  of  messengers  aflame  with  thee 
To  darkest  places  bearing  light  divine! 


JOHN  WESLEY  83 

II 

As  did  one  soul,  whom  here  I  fain  would  sing, 
For  here  in  youth  his  gentle  spirit  took 
New  fire  from  Wesley's  glow. 

How  oft  have  I, 

A  little  child,  harkened  my  father's  voice 
Preaching  the  Word  in  country  homes  remote, 
Or  wayside  schools,  where  only  two  or  three 
Were  gathered.     Lo,  again  that  voice  I  hear, 
Like  Wesley's,  raised  in  those  sweet,  fervent 

hymns 

Made  sacred  by  how  many  saints  of  God 
Who  breathed  their  souls  out  on  the  well- 
loved  tones. 

Again  I  see  those  circling,  eager  faces; 
I  hear  once  more  the  solemn-urging  words 
That  tell  the  things  of  God  in  simple  phrase; 
Again  the  deep-voiced,  reverent  prayer 

ascends, 

Bringing  to  the  still  summer  afternoon 
A  sense  of  the  eternal.     As  he  preached 
He  lived;  unselfish,  famelessly  heroic. 
For  even  in  mid-career,  with  life  still  full, 
His  was  the  glorious  privilege  and  choice 


84  JOHN  WESLEY 

Deliberately  to  give  that  life  away 

In  succor  of  the  suffering;  for  he  knew 

No  rule  but  duty,  no  reward  but  Christ. 


Ill 

Increase  thy  prophets,  Lord!  give  strength 

to  smite 

Shame  to  the  heart  of  luxury  and  sloth! 
Give  them  the  yearning  after  human  souls 
That  burned  in  Wesley's  breast!    Through 

them,  great  God! 

Teach  poverty  it  may  be  rich  in  thee; 
Teach  riches  the  true  wealth  of  thine  own 

spirit. 

To  our  loved  land,  Celestial  Purity! 
Bring  back  the  meaning  of  those  ancient 

words,— 

Not  lost  but  soiled,  and  darkly  disesteemed,— 
The  ever  sacred  names  of  husband,  wife, 
And  the  great  name  of  Love,— whereon  is 

built 

The  temple  of  human  happiness  and  hope! 
Baptize  with  holy  wrath  thy  prophets,  Lord! 
By  them  purge  from  us  this  corruption  foul 


JOHN  WESLEY  85 

That  seizes  on  our  civic  governments, 
Crowns  the  corrupter  in  the  sight  of  men, 
And  makes  him  maker  of  laws,  and  honor's 
source! 

Help  us,  in  memory  of  the  sainted  dead, 
Help  us,  O  Heaven!  to  frame  a  nobler  state, 
In  nobler  lives  rededicate  to  thee:— 
Symbol  and  part  of  the  large  brotherhood 
Of  man  and  nations;  one  in  one  great  love, 
True  love  of  God,  which  is  the  love  of  man, 
In  sacrifice  and  mutual  service  shown. 

Let  kindle,  as  before,  0  Heavenly  Light! 
New  messengers  of  righteousness,  and  hope, 
And  courage,  for  our  day!     So  shall  the  world 
That  ever,  surely,  climbs  to  thy  desire 
Grow  swifter  toward  thy  purpose  and  intent. 


A  TEMPLE  OF  ART 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  ALBRIGHT  ART 
GALLERY,  BUFFALO,  MAY  31,  1905 


SLOWLY  to  the  day  the  rose, 

The  moon-flower  suddenly  to  the  night, 

Their  mysteries  of  light 

In  innocence  unclose. 

II 

In  this  garden  of  delight, 
This  pillared  temple,  pure  and  white, 
We  plant  the  seed  of  art, 
With  mystic  power 

To  bring,  or  sudden  or  slow,  the  perfect  flower, 
That  cheers  and  comforts  the  sad  human  heart; 
That  brings  to  man  high  thought 
From  starry  regions  caught, 
86 


A  TEMPLE  OF  ART  87 

And  sweet,  unconscious  nobleness  of  deed; 
So  he  may  never  lose  his  childhood's  joyful 

creed, 
While  years  and  sorrows  to  sorrows  and 

years  succeed. 

Ill 

Though  thick  the  cloud  that  hides  the  unseen 

life 

Before  we  were  and  after  we  shall  be, 
Here  in  this  fragment  of  eternity; 
And  heavy  is  the  burden  and  the  strife— 
The  universe,  we  know,  in  beauty  had  its  birth; 
The  day  in  beauty  dawns,  in  beauty  dies, 
With  intense  color  of  the  sea  and  skies; 
And  life,  for  all  its  rapine,  with  beauty  floods 

the  earth. 

Lovely  the  birds,  and  their  true  song, 
Amid  the  murmurous  leaves,  the  summer  long. 
Whatever  the  baffling  power 
Sent  anger  and  earthquake  and  a  thousand  ills,— 
It  made  the  violet  flower, 
And  the  wide  world  with  breathless  beauty 

thrills. 


88  A  TEMPLE  OF  AKT 


IV 

Who  built  the  world  made  man 

With  power  to  build  and  plan, 

A  soul  all  loveliness  to  love,— 

Blossom  below  and  lucent  blue  above,— 

And  new  unending  beauty  to  contrive. 

He,  the  creature,  may  not  make 

Beautiful  beings  all  alive,— 

Irised  moth  nor  mottled  snake, 

The  lily's  splendor, 

The  light  of  glances  infinitely  tender, 

Nor  the  day's  dying  glow  nor  flush  of  morn,- 

And  yet  his  handiwork  the  angels  shall  not 

scorn, 
When  he  hath  wrought  in  truth  and  by 

Heaven's  law, 
In  lowliness  and  awe. 
Bravely  shall  he  labor,  while  from  his  pure 

hands 

Spring  fresh  wonders,  spread  new  lands; 
Son  of  God,  no  longer  child  of  fate, 
Like  God  he  shall  create. 


A  TEMPLE  OF  ART  89 


When,  weary  ages  hence,  this  wrong  world  is 

set  right; 

When  brotherhood  is  real 
And  all  that  justice  can  for  man  is  done; 
When  the  fair,  fleeing,  anguished-for  ideal 
Turns  actual  at  last;  and  'neath  the  sun 
Man  hath  no  human  foe; 
And  even  the  brazen  sky,  and  storms  that 

blow, 

And  all  the  elements  have  friendlier  proved,— 
By  human  wit  to  human  uses  moved,— 
Ah,  still  shall  art  endure, 
And  beauty's  light  and  lure, 
To  keep  man  noble,  and  make  life  delight, 
Though  shadows  backward  fall  from  the 

engulfing  night. 

VI 

In  a  world  of  little  aims, 
Sordid  hopes  and  futile  fames, 
Spirit  of  Beauty!  high  thy  place 
In  the  fashioning  of  the  race. 


90  A  TEMPLE  OF  ART 

In  this  temple,  built  to  thee, 
We  thy  worshipers  would  be, 
Lifting  up,  all  undefined, 
Hearts  as  lowly  as  a  child; 
Humble  to  be  taught  and  led 
And  on  celestial  manna  fed; 
So  to  take  into  our  lives 
Something  that  from  heaven  derives. 


THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE 


PART  I 

THE  White  Tsar's  people  cry: 
"Thou  God  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 
Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening; 

Hold,  Lord  God,  hold, 
Hold  thy  hand  lest  we  curse  thee  and  die." 

The  White  Tsar's  people  pray: 
"Thou  God  of  the  South  and  the  North, 
We  are  crushed,  we  are  bleeding; 
T  is  Christ,  't  is  thy  Son  interceding; 

Forth,  Lord,  come  forth! 
Bid  the  slayer  no  longer  slay." 

1  Parts  I  and  II  are  here  reprinted  from  "  Five  Books  of  Song." 
91 


92  THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE 

The  White  Tsar's  people  call 

Aloud  to  the  skies  of  lead: 
"We  are  slaves,  not  freemen: 
Ourselves,  our  children,  our  women— 

Dead,  we  are  dead, 
Though  we  breathe,  we  are  dead  men  all. 

"Blame  not  if  we  misprize  thee 

Who  can,  but  will  not  draw  near. 
'T  is  thou  who  hast  made  us— 
Not  thou,  dread  God,  to  upbraid  us. 

Hear,  Lord  God,  hear! 
Lest  we  whom  thou  madest  despise  thee." 

PART  II 

Then  answered  the  most  high  God, 

Lord  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 
Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening: 
"  Bold,  yea,  too  bold, 
Whom  I  wrought  from  the  air  and  the  clod! 

"  Hast  thou  forgotten  from  me 
Are  those  ears  so  quick  to  hear 


THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE  9^ 

The  passion  and  anguish 

Of  your  sisters,  your  children  who  languish 

Near?    Ah,  not  near— 
Far  off  by  the  uttermost  sea! 

"Who  gave  ye  your  brains  to  plan— 
Your  hearts  to  suffer  and  bleed? 
Why  call  ye  on  Heaven— 
'T  is  the  earth  that  to  you  is  given! 

Plead,  ye  may  plead, 
But  for  man  I  work  through  man. 

"Who  gave  ye  a  voice  to  utter 

Your  tale  to  the  wind  and  the  sea? 
One  word  well  spoken 
And  the  iron  gates  are  broken! 

From  me,  yea,  from  me 
The  word  that  ye  will  not  mutter. 

"I  love  not  murder  but  ruth. 

Begone  from  my  sight  ye  who  take 
The  knife  of  the  coward— 
Even  ye  who  by  Heaven  were  dowered! 

Wake  ye,  O  wake, 
And  strike  with  the  sword  of  Truth! 


94  THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE 

"Fear  ye  lest  I  misprize  ye— 

I  who  fashioned  not  brutes,  but  men. 

After  the  lightning 

And  darkness— the  dawn's  red  brightening! 
Men!     Be  ye  men! 

Lest  I  who  made  ye  despise  ye ! " 


PART  III 

(January  22,  1905) 

The  great  word  is  uttered,  at  last! 

White  Tsar!  0  where  hast  thou  fled? 
Thy  children,  heart-broken, 
To  thee  their  sorrows  have  spoken! 

To  thee  it  is  said— 
That  WORD  on  the  wings  of  the  blast! 

For  the  word  is  their  fearful  cry, 

And  the  word  is  their  innocent  blood. 

O  red  is  the  chalice 

Lifted  up  to  thy  empty  palace! 
Blood,  crimson  blood, 

On  the  snows  where  the  murdered  lie! 


THE  WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE  95 

Their  shed  blood  is  the  word!    It  is  winning 
Its  way  swift  from  zone  unto  zone; 

Through  the  world  it  has  thrilled 

And  the  heart  of  the  nations  stilled. 
Alone,  thou  alone! 

Art  thou  deaf  to  the  voice  and  the  meaning? 

Lo,  it  swells  like  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

Dull  monarch!  yet,  yet,  shalt  thou  hear  it! 
For,  once  'neath  the  sun 
By  the  brave  it  is  spoken— all  's  done! 

Hear  it— and  fear  it; 
For  "Freedom"  it  cries,  "We  are  free!" 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  priod  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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Gildar,    R. 

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"In  the  I 

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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


